“How is uncle?” asked Mr. Redmayne’s niece, and Albert’s friend declared the old book lover found himself indisposed.

“He kept it up a bit too late last night at the hotel and drank a little too much white wine,” said Peter.  “He’s all right but feeling a trifle like next morning.  He’ll stop where he is for a spell and you can take him up a biscuit and a hair of the dog that bit him presently.”

Ganns then announced his intention of going later to the town of Como, and he invited Doria and Brendon to accompany him; but Mark, already familiar with the part he had to play, declined, while Giuseppe also declared himself unable to take the trip.

“I must make ready to return to Turin,” he said.  “The world does not stand still while Signor Pietro is catching his red man.  I have business, and there is nothing to keep me here any longer.”

He appeared indifferent to the rest of the company and lacked his usual good humour; but the reason Brendon did not learn until a later hour.

After luncheon Mr. Ganns set off—­in a white waistcoat and other adornments; Giuseppe also left the villa, promising to return in a few hours; and Brendon joined Albert in his sleeping apartment.  For a time they were alone together and then came Jenny with some soup.  She stopped to chat for a little while and, finding her uncle apparently somnolent and disinclined to talk, turned to Mark and spoke under her breath.  She was still agitated and much preoccupied.

“Later, when we may, I should like to speak to you—­indeed I must do so.  I am in great danger myself and can only look to you,” she whispered.  Combined fear and entreaty filled her eyes and she put her hand upon his sleeve.  His own caught it and pressed it.  He forgot everything before her words.  She had come to him at last of her own free will.

“Trust me,” he answered, so that only she could hear.  “Your welfare and happiness are more to me than anything else on earth.”

“Doria will be out again later.  Once he has gone—­after dusk—­we can safely speak,” she answered.  Then she hastened away.

Albert Redmayne stirred himself as soon as Jenny withdrew.  He was dressed and lying on a couch beside the window.

“This subterfuge and simulation of ill health are most painful to me,” he declared.  “I am exceeding well to-day and all the better for our delightful dinner of last night.  For nobody less than dear Peter would I ever sink to pretend anything:  it is contrary to my nature and disposition so to do.  But since I have his word that to-day light is going to be thrown upon all this doubt and darkness I must possess my soul in patience, Brendon.  There are dreadful fears in Peter’s mind.  I have never known him to be suspicious of good people before.  He will not let me eat and drink in my own house to-day!  That is as much as to say that I have enemies within my gates.  What could be more distressing?”